The Golden Family
by Redhead Maniac
Summary: An ongoing series of snippets from Gold's and Daryl's lives together. Set in a modern day AU, but some things from both worlds remain (character-related) without a proper explanation/justification. Made for fun, not to be taken seriously.
1. Sneaking Out At Night

**A/N: These are a series of small scenes which I write when an idea hits me. They're all in the same AU universe (whichever the fuck that might be, don't ask xDD). The cover art is done by my wonderful friend in crime who sails this ship with me, lamblia 333  
**

...it's a deep night, but Daryl can't seem to sleep. So he sits in the main room downstairs, watching late-night TV and frowning at the screen, drinking his black coffee and waiting for Rumple to come home from wherever the fuck he is. The man's tendency to go off whenever he damn pleases brought on more than a couple of fights, and Dixon is getting pretty fed up with this whole thing. There's nothing wrong wanting to know where your boyfriend is at, is there? It's not like Daryl's overprotective or something. Ok, so maybe he is. A little. A tiny bit. An itsy-bitsy tiny bit?

Daryl snorts and puts a hand down on his knee to keep it from bouncing. Fuck it, he's nervous. He's sure that Gold can take care of himself, but he just..

The quiet screech of the door upstairs has him bolting up in seconds, leaving the coffee mug on the table without as much as a dull bang. His stomach starts twisting in knots as he swiftly makes his way towards the hall to grab his crossbow. He knew, he just fucking knew he should bring the thing with him wherever he goes, not leave it hanging on the wall like a fucking deco piece.

Daryl's heart thumps a tattoo against his ribcage as he creeps up the stairs, his bow pointed in front of him.

The barely audible shuffles and a gust of wind comes from their bedroom.

Making a quick inhale and not ready to waste even a second if it saves his (and possibly Rumple's) life, the redneck kicks the door open, a hearty growl rising like bile up his throat, only to freeze and turn into a dismorphed semi-questioning sound. There, in front of the open window, stands Rumple, with..

— What the hell's that? And where the fuck you've been?!

Rumple flinches at the loud bang of the door opening and whips in that direction, eyes aglow in the dark.

— Ah, dearie! Quiet down, please. You don't want to wake it.

— ..wake what? — Daryl's pissed and it shows. He squints his blue eyes and finally makes out the shape of the bundle in his man's arms.

— The fuck's tha? — He repeats his question, nodding in the direction of _something_

— Why don't you come look and see for yourself? — Rumple's voice is full of glee and it makes Daryl cautious. The only other times he's heard that tone of voice was during their..sessions.

Regardless, he steps forward, his gait slow and cautious, the bow held at waist-height and ready to be raised any second. What Dixon doesn't expect to find, however, is..

— A baby? You brought home a fucking baby?! What the hell is wrong with you?!

— Ssh, you'll wake it, — Gold's got to be kidding, but he looks dead serious.

— Are ye sick?

— Now, why would you ask such a question, dearie?

— ..cause you've clearly lost it, old man.

— Nah, why's that?

Daryl peers at the bundle, his face ridden over with confusion and somewhat of relief. Is this why Rumple's been sneaking out? Why did he feel the need to?

— ..'tis not about you finding some picket-life with a girl, is it? — His gruff voice carries over in the dark room.

— No, of course not, now don't be ridiculous, dearie.

Daryl huffs and gently pokes the baby's cheek with a finger. It appears to be sleeping.

— Where'd you get the thing? You know you can't jus' go round stealing babies, do you?

— Well.. - Rumple's little side eye-roll and that cocky, all-knowing smile do it for him.

— Rumple, THE FUCK DID YOU DO? You've got to bring the thing back! No, no no no, fer fuck's sake, that's not how it is.. Oh fuck, Rumple, what've you done again?! Shit man. - Dixon groans and lets his head fall back, staring at the grey ceiling.

He swears, sometimes he's not sure who's more dysfunctional in this relationship: the hunter who can't talk about actual feelings and has a strange thing for bringing squirrels for dinner, or the man who apparently creeps out at night to steal babies, cause he's too scared to talk about it with him.


	2. Goodnight, Demon Slayer

**A/N: The song is Voltaire - Goodnight, Demon Slayer. This follows pretty closely after the first one.**

It's way past midnight and Gold is tired as he sits in his study, looking over some contracts and re-organizing old files when he hears the unmistakable muffled cry coming from upstairs. About time too, he thinks - a quick glance at the clock confirms it's almost exactly two am. The man closes the fat, leather-bound folder and swiftly gets up from the chair, grabbing the cane hanging from its arm. The babe is probably hungry, and she goes off like an alarm when it comes to food, which, to be honest, _is_ a bit of a pain, but one that Gold's more than willing to put up with. Deciding to be done with work for tonight, Rumplestiltskin turns off the lights and exits his study, closing the door and making his way up the stairs towards the infantry to tend to the little one. While he's half-way there, the crying seems to abruptly stop, but the pawnbroker doesn't pay it much attention - she's probably gonna go off in a second or two again. She doesn't, however, and as Gold steps out into the corridor between the master bedroom and the child's room, he thinks he hears a quiet voice singing. Tip-toeing his way to the door as soundlessly as possible, the man nudges it slightly ajar, spilling soft light from the nightstand lamp onto the wooden floor. The sight which opens in front of him makes Rumple freeze for a moment, forgetting the purpose with which he came up here in the first place.  
Daryl, clad in one of his favourite plaid sleeveless shirts and pants stands in front of the cradle, holding the babe and looking at her with a gentle intensity, his chapped, thin lips moving to the words of the song.

Tell the creature that lurks behind the door  
If he knows what's good he won't come here no more  
Cause you'll kick in his butt at the count of four

Gold feels a ridiculous smile quirking his lips and comes a bit forward to lean on the doorway as he watches the gruff man sing what appears to be a very..unique version of a lullaby to the blue-eyed girl, who looks up at the hunter with open wonder and sucks on her tiny pink thumb.  
He's not sure if Daryl's aware of his presence, but the man seems so engrossed with the baby, cradling her in his muscled arms with utmost care and the constant hard lines of his face smoothed out, the strong, gruff voice mischievous and full of _care_ as he carries on with the song.

Goodnight demon slayer, goodnight  
Now it's time to close your tired eyes  
There are devils to slay and dragons to ride  
If they see you coming, hell they better hide

It's not common to see Daryl let go and open himself up so easily, and Gold truly cherishes the moment, watching his loved one put the child back to sleep, warmth gripping his heart just as Daryl's gripping the tiny bundle - firm, yet gentle.

Tell the harpies that land on your bed post  
That at the count of five you'll roast them alive  
Tell the devil it's time you gave him his due  
He should go back to hell, he should shake in his shoes  
Cause the mightiest, scariest, creature is you

Ah, the man does have the strangest taste in lullabies though, but who's he to blame? It's Daryl Dixon, after all.  
It's in this moment that Rumple's finally hit: he has a _family_. A real, proper family, even if they do seem dysfunctional at times. This though? This wholeheartedly makes up for all their faults and ridges.

He doesn't notice the singing stop, but the gruff, clipped voice does break him out of his reverie:  
— ...and what'cha lookin' at?  
Ah, yes, their little dysfunctional family.


	3. Good Morning Baby

**A/N: Okay, this one is set pretty far apart from the previous ones. The baby's all grown up here, about 17, probably. Best read while listening to _Dan Wilson Of Semisonic & Bic Runga – Good Morning Baby_.  
**

He's not sure what wakes him - the breeze of cool March air gliding over his half-uncovered body or the quiet "Mornin'" breathed into his right ear. Whatever it may be, Gold stirs as he slowly regains consciousness and gradually becomes aware of the things around him: the clean, crisp smell of white sheets, the downy pillow beneath his head, the distant warmth of sunlight streaming through the open window onto his skin, the heavy weight of an arm thrown over his torso and the dry, chapped lips pressing to the side of his neck. The white, quiet bliss is erased from behind his eyelids as Gold opens one of his eyes (the other side of his face still meshed into the pillow), and is replaced by the sight of a messy, brown mop of hair.  
— Mm.. What a nice thing to wake up to.  
— Yeah? — The husky voice blows over his ear as the man behind him shifts, muscled arm tightening its hold on the pawnbroker's middle.  
— What's there not to consider nice?  
There's a throaty chuckle with an underlying growl as Daryl swings one leg over Gold's, the heavy weight trapping the man in place; not that he was planning on moving or anything.  
— Ya talk t' much. 'tis mornin'. — Dixon's especially thick in the mornings Southern accent slurs his words, deeming them almost impossible to comprehend, but Rumple's been around long enough to get the message and give a chuckle of his own.  
— Alright, alright, dearie.  
— I said shuddup, — Daryl grumbles as he moves closer, full body pressing against his lover's, and nips at the juncture between Gold's neck and shoulder. The latter lets out a content sigh and stretches out on the bed, feeling exceptionally light after a good night's sleep. He spares a brief glance at the clock standing on the bedside table — it reads 7:15 AM. Ah, one of the few things he and Dixon have in common — they're both early birds.  
Meanwhile the redneck continues to nip and lick as Gold closes his eyes and lets his head rest against the hunter's own shoulder, too content to either rebuke or actively participate in what seems to be this morning's chosen activity; so he lets Daryl lavish him with attention, small kisses across his pale skin and the touch of calloused hands on his hips, sides and stomach, strong fingers tracing god-knows what kind of messed-up patterns as Daryl leans in further and almost hovers over Rumple, catching his lips in a kiss as his hand closes on its target.  
Gold swallows a small gasp threatening to fall from his lips, and Dixon uses that exact moment to shove his tongue down the man's throat, grunting like an uncivilized being, which, to be fair, is what he appears to be most of the time anyway. The pawnbroker sucks in the air through his nose, exhaling in the same manner as Daryl slowly pulls and palms, his body taut and tensed up behind Gold's.  
— Ah, you _are_ rather tender this morning, — Gold mumbles out with a gasp, as the hunter twists his wrist — ...dearie.  
— Told ya to shut it, didn't I?  
— Right. Carry on, then.  
— Plannin' to, old man, if ya'd just let me, — the redneck growls, his leg bearing down even heavier over the others, and Gold can't deny the surge of satisfaction. Seems like Daryl feels it too, judging by the hard press against his lower back and the rough breathing that borderlines panting against Gold's skin.  
With the way Daryl's leg is thrown over Gold's thigh and his other arm supporting his weight so he can actually reach over, Daryl's back is left fully exposed as the sheets slide down from his body to pool at his hips. This, as it turns out, is not the best of positions as a loud bang resounds from the door cracking against the wall.  
— DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAADS!  
Both men freeze on the spot, hearts hammering and every thought wiped out from their heads as Abigail rushes into the room, seemingly unaware what she's just walked onto.  
— YOU SHOULD COME SEE TH... Dads..?  
It is Gold who finds his voice first.  
— Dearie, have you ever heard of the courtesy of knocking before you barge into someone's bedroom?  
There's a couple of seconds of silence as their daughter takes in the full picture, her father's words flying over her head until she finally snaps out of it.  
— OH MY GOD DAD WHAT IS WITH YER BACK?!  
Gold practically feels Daryl's body seize and his hackles rise, and if he doesn't do something quick, he can bet on a bloody murder on the count of four.  
— Dearie, everything is fine. Now please, leave and close the door. We'll be down in a minute.  
— But..~!  
— He said GO, goddammit! — Daryl barks without turning his head and facing his daughter. The child mumbles something incomprehensible and the shy click of the door closing sounds throughout the room.  
— Daryl.. — Rumple starts cautiously.  
— Jus' leave me tha fuck' alone 'n lemme die here...  
— Now-now, no need to over-dramatize this, dearie.  
— Da fuck there isn't. Remind me again, why'd I agree t'keep dis monster?  
— Because you love her, obviously. Now come on dearie, get up. We still have to put ointment on your back. Don't want any permanent damage after all.


	4. Not Strong Enough

Best read while listening to _Apocalyptica – Not Strong Enough_. As always, illustrations in my description.

* * *

He's wiping the snot running down his nose with the back of his hand, smearing it all over the skin and squinting his eyes in an angry glare directed towards the wall. He ain't no fucking pussy to cry, but the damn moisture spills out of the corners of his eyes and his throat constricts with muscle spasms from the effort of keeping a reign on himself. His body, however, seems to take none of his bullshit, all of the emotions bottled up deep inside fighting to emerge onto the surface. Another angry sniff echoes off the walls of the room as Daryl shifts on the sofa. His head is fucked up. He's always been the guy who lives in the present, because what's the use of dwelling on things or worrying about what the fuck's gonna happen? No, living in the moment is the safest, helthiest thing as far as Daryl's concerned. So what the fuck's he doin' in this small dark apartment, with a bottle full of Johny Walker and so distraught over something that should've clearly stayed in the past?  
He swallows the cold night air with the salt, wipes his face again, getting angry cause the damn tears won't stop, and rapidly blinks at the vibrating phone thrown on the table.  
He well damn knew there was something _off_ with the goddamned man the second he walked into that shop. A gut feeling, a primeval instinct saying to stay the fuck away. The same thing that runs over and over through his head, screaming to run as far as possible and never look back.  
Well shit, that's exactly what he would do.  
Except, this time he _can't_. There's a huge tangle of boiling thoughts in his head and a throbbing, flesh-eating heartache he ain't willing to acknowledge.  
Daryl doesn't know how to deal with it.  
So he does what he does best - he holes up and drinks, pretending nothing's happened. Pretending there ain't any feelings involved or to be discussed. Not picking up the goddamned ringing phone.  
Life's a bitch with a shitty sense of humor, Daryl thinks. Just when everything was starting to get back to normal, when he thought, heck, that he could _adjust_ to this new life, find his own little niche an' be content, life fucks him over. Cause Dixons never get it easy, do they?  
It took half a year for the fucker to spill his beans. For Daryl to silently sit and listen as that motherless bastard told him about the jump from the other world, told him that he is the cause that reversed the apocalypse, the zombie-infestation in _this_ world.  
In Daryl's mind, that told him if the bastard decided to jump earlier, his brother would still be alive. He asked the date, he asked the godforsaken date, and he got it. Just a couple of lousy months, that's all it would've taken - just a couple of months earlier, and this whole shit-fest of an apocalypse would've been halted, reversed, _cured_. And Merle would've lived. He'd never have to go on that suicide-trip for the Governor. He..  
His shoulders shake and a strangled sound makes its way out of Daryl's throat. He can't deal with this shit, not now, not ever. Knowing that a flicker of some dumb luck could've saved his brother, his family. Deep inside Daryl understands that it's stupid and pointless, that no-one could've predicted the timing, or even the jump itself, but what's with the damn coincidence of him meeting the man?!  
Life's fucked up. He feels cornered, betrayed, and he wants to scream and tear down the whole place, maybe Gold's too. Then there's another little flicker that longs to be held tightly and whispered to, that wants to give up everything and let go, allowing the other to ease his body and mind, take control and direct his anguish and anger.  
He fucking hates that man, and at the same time he can't cut himself loose. Whatever keeps on happening, he finds himself unable to get free, to stay away.  
He doesn't want to leave, and he doesn't want to fucking stay either. His head is throbbing with all the tiny voices screaming.  
_Stay. Walk away. Pleasure. Pain. Run away. Run back._  
He doesn't have any respect for himself right now. Fucking, stupid, lovesick sissy.  
BAM!  
A furious scream tears from his lungs as Daryl overthrows the table, the bottle, phone and remotes skittering all over the tiled floor. His back and shoulders move with every heavy breath he takes, cold sweat collecting between his shoulder blades and at the hollow of his throat from pure emotional turmoil and exertion.  
— STOP RINGING, — he yells at the stupid phone that keeps on giving off vibrations on the floor. — I DON'T WANNA TALK TO YE!  
Except he does, so very much. He can't control himself, he needs someone to take it, to bend him and push him, to tell him what to do. Someone who Daryl can respect, someone whom he trusts, someone strong enough.  
He can deal with a lot of shit, but once it starts involving emotions, it becomes a shit_storm_.  
His Da, and then Merle used to tell him to calm the fuck down and shut up, to stop acting and whining like a little girl and get to work. They told him what to do, they put him to use and he burned out all his anger on the tasks given.  
He didn't respect any of 'em though.  
He came to respect another man. Rick.  
Rick did the same — he guided Daryl, directed him, handed out jobs to complete and shot him down with sharp words when Dixon got a stupid idea in his head or tried to take down one of the living. He kept Daryl level-headed and in-check, deeming him safe for the group.  
Now with everyone parting ways and having separate lives, Daryl is left without a head collar.  
Rumple— Gold, is a completely different story. He isn't concerned about Dixon's lash-outs like Rick was, he doesn't try to quench every single one of them. Somehow, the man knows just when he needs to put a foot down on Daryl's throat and say _stop_, and when he needs to let him steam-out. He doesn't dehumanize and insult him like Merle and Da did, and he doesn't always give him a task to complete.  
He just takes him, shoves him rough and hard, grabs him, leaving dark bruises on Daryl's skin, and yanks his head up by the hair at the nape of his neck. And then he inflicts pain, one stinging bite after another, letting Daryl growl and clutch at the surface all he wants and taking full control over his body, making his boiling thoughts go numb and focus on the pain. In those moments Daryl doesn't need to decide, doesn't need to think nor act, doesn't need to feel. He can let himself go without fear, entrusting the man bearing down hits on his back with his life.  
The dried tears pull taut at the skin of his cheeks, but it's a mild irritation. After another sniff he takes a step forward and slowly gets down on his haunches. The stupid phone isn't vibrating anymore, but the screen is blinking with missed calls.  
— Five, huh? That desperate? — His voice is fucked up from holding in the sobs and the screams, but he doesn't give a damn. Seems like everything about him is fucked up these days.  
Actually, the only times he can recall when he's o'k is whenever the stupid prick's around.  
He's almost scared of picking the phone up off the floor, like it's gonna burn him, or eat him alive.  
He doesn't want to talk about his feelings. He can't. He doesn't know how, so this stupid machinery is useless.  
Daryl steels himself and lets out a sigh.  
He's got to stop running someday. Maybe, just maybe — now is exactly the time to start. What's he to say?  
— Fuck..  
Swallowing the thickness on his tongue, Dixon closes his pale blues and exhales.  
All he's gotta do is call. Tell him where he is, yeah?  
And then Gold will take it from there. Everything following the call — the likely screaming, the door banging and yelling of "Daryl, let me in" — everything will be entrusted into the hands of that man. Everything will be released in exact measures, bent, contained, fixed by the man. Everything will be scripted to make the emotional pain go away, to make him feel better.  
All Daryl's gotta do is pick up the phone and call. He can stop running in both directions. He can give in and give up his decision into the other's hands. He can let himself be guided. Directed.  
All he's gotta do is call.  
Without thinking, Daryl presses the speed-dial and watches as "Old creep" flashes across the screen before he hears the dial-up tone.  
On the count of two he hears "Daryl?", and lets go


	5. Not Drunk Enough For This

Best read while listening to _April March - Chick Habit_.

* * *

— Remind me, what're we doin' here again? — Daryl grumbles as he swirls the half-empty bottle of beer in his hands, the condensation leaving his palms wet. The rickety plastic chair squeaks as Gold does a half-turn to look at his lover.  
— Why dearie, we're here for the celebration, of course!  
— Yeah, how _observant_ of ya. I meant, what the fuck are _we_ doin' here, old man? Could'a been sleepin' or doing some other fun things, if yanno what I mean. — He throws a suggestive look, making sure no one is watching.  
— I rather like that idea, but I'm afraid public image obligations come first this time around, dearie. It is, after all, our neighbors' party that we're attending. And we want to be on good terms with them, don't we?  
— Fuck if I care, — Dixon grumbles as he takes a swig of the dark stuff and glares at the crowd gathered around the pool. The only things he's enjoying so far are the fresh air and the free booze, so he doesn't get this whole "social etiquette" thing Gold's so stuck on doing.  
Daryl squints and picks out his daughter in the sea of people, watching her gesture excitedly about one thing or another to some other girl about her own age. Well, at least _someone_ is enjoying themselves. He snorts and takes another long drink with the full intention of getting shit-faced if this party doesn't end soon. He doesn't do social gatherings well, if at all, and this is one of the times he actually considers the benefits of the zombiepocalypse. This whole _normalcy_ slash _neighbor_ slash _family_ stuff can be a fucken burden heavier than a bow to carry.  
He's still glad about some things, though.  
— Now, dearie, don't go heavy on those. I believe that's your fifth.  
— Shut it an' stop counting. — There's no real heat behind his words, — Ya should drink somethin' yourself man. Looking all formal and shit, like there's a stick deep up yer ass.  
Gold quirks an eyebrow at the last remark, which earns him an eye-roll from the redneck.  
— Pick your words wisely, dearie, or you just might end up..  
— DA! — The high ringing voice interrupts their little conversation.  
— Oh, hey darling. You wanted something? — The dark, promising look is immediately erased from Rumplestiltskin's face, replaced by a warm, fond smile reserved exclusively for his daughter.  
— Nah, not really.. Just checking up on you two. Everything okay? — Abigail tilts her head to the side, eying her parents with slight suspicion.  
— ..alright, lil' fucker, spit it, what'dya want? — The younger man snorts as he takes the last gulp of his Guinness.  
— Well, actually, I was wondering.. — The teenage girl folds her hands behind her back and steps up on her toes, gently rocking back and forth as she looks at Daryl with wide brown eyes.  
— Nu-uh, not buying the innocent look, kid.  
Immediately Abigail deflates and moves to grab her father's hand.  
— But Daaaaaa! Ya haven't even heard it yet!  
— Then tell me, th'fuck ye dancing around fer?!  
— Daryl, language!  
Both Dixons turn their heads to give Gold an exasperated "are you kidding me" look before turning back to each other.  
— Actually, that's exactly wha' I wanted to ask. Can ya dance with me, daddy?  
Daryl almost chokes on his empty bottle, eyes going wide with disgust and horror at the redhead's proposition.  
— Fuck no, I ain't good at that shit. Go bother yer Pa.  
Even before the girl can turn to her other dad, Gold puts his hands up in an apologetic gesture.  
— Sorry dearie, but I'm no good with that leg of mine. Daryl, now, why don't you actually go dance with your daughter? Better than chugging beer all evening long.  
— Yeah, Da, c'mon! — The kid seems really excited, clasping her hands together and leaning forward until her red locks cover the sides of her face, masking her from Rumplestiltskin's view.  
— ..or I can always tell dad that ye were goin' 'round the house nekid in the mornin'? — She urgently whispers and watches as Daryl's expression turns sour.  
— ..raised ya well, didn't I? — He grumbles under his breath and puts the bottle on the ground beside his chair, getting up. — Al'right, ya win, lil' shit. Let's go.  
— Ya know you're a monster, right? — Dixon lifts one of his eyebrows as Abigail grabs his hand and drags him across the yard to the small area where folks are dancing to some weird tune.  
— Yup! — She pulls him right into the small crowd, making him bump into a dancing couple and grunt out a half-assed apology.  
— Kid, yanno I'm gonna hate ye forever fer this?  
— Dad, just shut up an' move! Please? — She adds as an afterthought.  
As the elder Dixon stands stock-still and licks his lips, thinking about the wet grass (all thanks to the asshole who decided that jumping into the pool would be fun) grazing his boots, the sound of the current song comes to an end and something horribly trashy, atrociously _cheery_ and cheeky comes on.  
— Oh no, oh heck no, I ain't dancing to that kid!  
— Are!  
— N..oh fuck you.  
He feels incredibly stupid as he watches his daughter start to sway her hips to the music, jeans short-clad legs apart and stomped firmly onto the ground, bent arms at her sides as she does this sort-of swing, sort-of twist thing with her whole body, red plaid shirt undone over her white tank top, swaying with her every movement. There's a huuuge smile splitting her face and she looks right at her dad, almost _daring_ him to _not_ join.  
Silently swearing that he deserves Heaven as an afterlife, Daryl begins to move.  
It's really fucking awkward and he feels extremely conscious of his limbs. Who the fuck said that alcohol helps with this shit? They were lying, the bastards!  
He does a double-take at the people moving around freely out of the corner of his eye and tries to subtly shift his hips. Fucking hell...  
— Don't think, Da! — Abigail exclaims as she moves closer. — Repeat after me, m'kay?  
— Ugh..sure kid.. — He tries to get a grip of her movements, failing miserably because of one single fact: he feels out of his depth, so all of them are cut short, angular and jerky. That is, until tiny gentle hands suddenly push at his side and he finds the kid dancing to his right, in his personal space, with the hugest shit-eating grin he's ever seen and eagerness all over her lit-up face.  
— C'mon, you can do it, old man!  
— The fuck you just called me, chicken shit? — Daryl turns his head as the little one moves her shoulders and arms to the fancy beat, laughing. It's contagious, and Dixon finds his own lips quirking up in a smile, and fuck it, he might as well try.  
The evening breeze and the long strings of lights hanging around the yard mix with the booze in his system, and suddenly Daryl feels just a bit lighter. It becomes a bit easier to move, a bit smoother to shift his legs and hips to the upbeat, a bit more enjoyable as he sticks his tongue out as if to say "fuck you, I can actually do this!" to his daughter, and that much more precious as she mirrors him not a second after, until they're fully in their "fool-bubble", as Gold likes to call it, shaking, lifting their hands up above their heads, bobbing them and making Abigail's hair fly in a bright orange splat like a fiery halo.  
— Fuck yeah! — Daryl whoops as he grabs his daughter's hand, pulling her right into him and forcing the teen to step onto his boots, bending down to Abigail's level and rubbing his nose against hers with wide-open eyes until she bursts into precious laughter and Daryl feels tiny stars explode in his chest at the sound.  
Twirling her around and grabbing at the waist, Dixon proceeds to dip his laughing precious angel, the orange tips of her grown-out hair almost reaching the grass. As the catchy (yeah, alright, he's willing to admit that now) tune comes to the chorus and they straighten up, the kid bouncing with endless energy and Daryl going right along with her (fuck he's gonna be embarrassed in the morning), the teen decided to bump him in the side with her hips, putting all of the momentum into that single move, knowing it ain't gonna make her Da stumble.  
Except it does so much more.  
Shock and surprise cross Dixon-Gold's face as her eyes widen and she feels herself _falling_ right after a colourful swear from her dad, and all thanks to an especially wet patch of fucking grass where one of Daryl's feet decides to step and then _slip_.  
Daryl hits the ground first, a breathless grunt torn out of his lungs as Abigail lands right on top of him, limbs flailing and smacking his head in the process. It's silent three seconds between the two of them blinking at each other as the music keeps on playing in the background and some people gasp and turn towards them, already starting to offer help, before the Dixons bust into uncontrollable laughter until tears gather in the corners of the hunter's pale blue eyes.  
— Ah, fuck, that went well, didn't it?!  
The redhead on top of him shakes with laughter and scrunches up her nose in that cute way her dad adores, until they finally sit up and Daryl begins to get up, ignoring some dude's stretched out hand offering help.  
— S'okay, I got it, dun worry. — Instead it's him who bends down and grabs Abigail by the arm, pulling her up in one move and hugging her single-handily. They stand there, amongst the dancing people, Daryl chuckling like a big idiot and his daughter smiling, and he kisses the top of her head, clapping her on the lower back right after.  
— C'mon, your dad's gonna give us shit for that, public appearance and all, my ass.  
What he doesn't know about is the smile Gold harbours as he tries to hide it behind his hand, looking at the two most important people in his life and thanking every star he knows in existence for allowing this to happen.


End file.
